


Serendipity

by t_pock



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jim is part recluse part mechanic, M/M, Spock is a grad student
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_pock/pseuds/t_pock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Boredom is a real epidemic out in corn country.</i>
</p><p>Or, Jim fixes cars and Spock's car needs fixing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serendipity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pigeonmistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonmistress/gifts).



> This is me stepping back into fic with a gift for my honey.
> 
> I know nothing about Riverside, nothing about cars, and jack shit about solar tech. I only know sweaty!Jim.

It’s damn hot in Riverside.

Not a cloud in the sky. Makes the sun look like a coin in a clear pond, but it also makes the dirt under Jim’s back feel like a skillet through his shirt. He’s sweating under his cap and his socks are soaked in his boots, though it’s barely midday and he’s not halfway through taking apart the engine he scavenged from the scrap yard. The air is still steamy from the shower a few days past and Jim feels like he’s marinating where he lies underneath the junky motorcycle he’s cannibalizing for his latest project.

The planting’s been done for a month now. He’s had enough time on his hands to start building a hoverbike from the ground up, something he’s been meaning to do since his brother got hitched with that colony girl and left the planet. Sam took their old dog with him, and with his mother on another deep space tour (the fourth she’s taken in the two-and-some decades Jim has been alive) the Kirk farmhouse has been uncomfortably quiet. Nothing in the house but Jim and some attic mice, and they don’t make much conversation.

Boredom is a real epidemic out in corn country—rocking on the porch with a beer in one hand and a non-synth guitar in the other can only carry Jim through so many hours of the day. Sometimes the barn cat will drag a mangled bird up the front steps and drop it at his feet, but that’s not exactly what Jim would call entertainment. The bike is his way of keeping sane until the hard labor of harvest.

Might go crazy anyway in this heat. His sweaty fingers are slipping on parts and several times now he’s come close to gouging out an eye by almost dropping his tools on his face. His cheeks are hot even under the shade of the bill of his hat. He’s thinking about taking a break once he excavates the anti-grav parts from the junk bike, downing a cool drink and slapping a little more sunscreen on his skin so he doesn’t pass out from heat exhaustion. No one around to ice his sorry ass if he fries.

That’s how he prefers it anyhow. He’ll take dead birds and mouse pellets any day over the neighbors that used to come to try and make nice, the townsfolk that drove over and cooed at him with fruit baskets and questions about how his mother and brother are faring. Cats and mice don’t simper at his face and pretend to care that he’s the last Kirk with his feet on the ground, and they don’t hunt for ways to mention his dead father while they do it either. The chatty rustling of the corn stalks in the muggy breeze will always be his first choice, even if it means he has to make his own fun.

Jim tosses the graviton torque wrench in his hand to the side and crawls out from under the bike. He doesn’t deserve a break but he figures that with no real responsibilities holding him accountable he can afford to get out of the sun and waste ten or so minutes. The heat is cooking his head, making him think wrong. A beer sounds like what the doctor ordered.

The deck creaks under his boots when he climbs the old, weathered steps. He snatches a half-full bottle off the little table in the porch’s corner, tepid despite the cover of the awning, and takes a swig. After a moment’s consideration, he downs the rest and drops into the wicker chair by the little table, tugging his hat off and dragging his forearm across his forehead.

He’d thought a morning underneath his favorite pet project would lift his spirits, but the missive he picked up at the post office this morning is still clear on his mind. He knew what the mail chip was even before he plugged it into his PADD—the chevron insignia embossed on the side was a dead giveaway. It’s been a long time since Starfleet has sent him a recruitment packet.

He’d thrown the chip away like all the others, of course, but not before being inundated with a flood of images of the Academy’s manicured lawns and stately buildings, pictures of a red sea of cadet uniforms and an ink spill of professor slacks. He’d even got as far as thinking that the Academy had changed in the decade and a half since he’d been there, that it looked different without all the anniversary banners bearing his father’s name, before he’d returned to himself and dumped the chip like the trash it was.

He snaps his cap firmly back on his head. The deck creaks some more as he stands and jogs back down the steps, bending to scoop up his wrench along the way. He has better things to do than let himself be harassed by shitty institutions—like finish this project so he can take it to the motor fair come autumn and win some show money. Let the bastards waste change on postage if they want.

He rolls onto his back and slides beneath the bike again, fiddling with the bill of his hat until it blocks the sun and he can see what he’s doing. Not a minute back in the sun and already the sweat that had cooled in the shade is rolling down in beads from his hair. He pays it no mind and starts lifting his tools to get back to work.

“Pardon me—”

Jim drops the wrench, nearly brains himself on the underside of the junk bike. “Fucking hell,” he gasps, pulse jumpstarted by the sudden voice.

He cranes his neck, looking for the source. There, coming around the side of the farmhouse—a person.

“Pardon me,” they repeat. “I apologize for the interruption.”

Jim struggles to his feet. “You’re fine,” he says, brushing a hand down his chest to calm his still-racing heart. Worse than a rabbit, he chides himself. Too easily startled. Would have thought the beer would have mellowed him out.

In his defense, it’s been a while since anyone’s come knocking. Now that he’s not upside down, he squints at the stranger—he can see that despite the sweaty weather they’re swept up in austere black robes, head shrouded in a sheer veil and face obscured from view. Not from around here.

“It is not my intention to trespass,” they explain. “I attempted to use the intercom and received no response.”

Jim thinks about the broken doorbell he never bothered to fix. “Sorry about that—don’t get visitors all that often.” Never, in fact, not anymore—Jim’s established himself firmly as a recluse. The only people he has regular contact with are the Wesley brothers who help him tend the corn, the grocer who comes to deliver his food every two weeks, and the vendor at the antique store who sells him old paper-bound books when he can be fucked to make the drive into town. “Name’s Jim.” He deliberately withholds the ‘Kirk’.

“I am Spock,” the stranger says. “I am in need of assistance.”

Jim didn’t really plan on company today, especially not company appearing out of the silence mummified in stifling clothing. He can see that the stranger—Spock—has dust on his robes all the way up to the knee, however, and for all that Jim’s become an ornery prick he wasn’t raised uncivil. He searches for his manners.

“Come on inside,” he offers, pointing at the back door. “I’ll try to help.”

-

Now that the veil and shawl have been pulled down, Jim can see that his guest is not human—he’s a Vulcan. Tall and linear and stony as a gargoyle. Infinitely prettier, though, with a moue of a mouth and eyes so earthy they make Jim think of planting season. His boots sound like stilettos clicking across the floorboards of the Kirk farmhouse as he follows Jim into the kitchen.

“Water?” Jim offers, taking a cup down from the cupboard and sticking it under the faucet. He doesn’t have anything except his mother’s formal glasses, practically stemware. Doesn’t need anything else—beer comes in its own bottles after all. He fills the cup to the top and holds it out.

Spock reaches for the glass with a spare, “I thank you.” He holds it in his hands with what Jim would call reverence, if his face weren’t totally devoid of expression. The thought occurs to him that Vulcan is a desert planet, that as dry as the corn grit makes his skin it’s probably nothing compared to what Vulcan has to offer. Spock’s throat flutters attractively as he drinks.

Jim wipes the grease on his hands on the front of his dusty jeans and doesn’t stop himself from looking.

“You said it just broke down on you?” he drawls. “No warning?”

“Affirmative,” Spock says. “The engine malfunctioned and the vehicle stalled 1.3 kilometers to the south of this location.” His diction is so unyielding and his pronunciation is so careful that the side of Jim’s mouth quirks in amusement. “With whom must I speak to arrange for the repair of my vehicle?”

Jim hasn’t needed a mechanic for a long time. “Memory’s a little rusty. Fordham is sloppy. Ibizu isn’t worth your time. I think Gomez is your best bet.” Jim remembers her perfume as he says her name. “Patricia Gomez. She runs Nuts N’ Bolts, east side of town.”

Spock nods. “Thank you for your recommendation. If you will permit me the use of your comm unit, I will make the calls necessary for its repairs and remove myself from your property.”

That’s a bit of bad luck for Spock, Jim thinks, pushing away from the counter. “You can use the comm all you want, for all the good it’ll do you around here. It’s Sunday,” he explains apologetically. “Most everybody’s closed until tomorrow.”

Spock’s mouth tugs minutely downward. “I see.” Jim can’t help but look at the way the condensation from his glass rolls down his fingers. “Then if you will inform me of the directions to the shipyard, I will proceed there on foot.”

“The shipyard?” Jim frowns. He thinks about the missive from this morning and feels himself tense. “You’re Starfleet?”

His premature suspicions are laid to rest. “Negative,” Spock says. “I am a recent graduate of the Vulcan Science Academy. I am here on a commission.”

Jim thinks about the half-finished starship parked in the stirrups at the shipyard, the big beauty he sometimes drives out to see when the early mornings are misty and she’s silhouetted in the fog by the stadium lights turned on her skeleton. She’s state of the art. A lot of people have been shuttling in lately, people with credentials longer than his arm.

“You must be the best,” Jim says, eyebrows raised, reluctantly impressed. “An engineer?”

“A computer scientist. It is true that I graduated in the top 2% of my class,” Spock says. Jim feels a frisson of excitement—he likes them computer literate. He’s also intrigued by the absolute neutrality of the statement—no modesty, no arrogance. “Is it possible to reach the shipyard by 1700 hours?”

Jim does the mental math. “If you sprinted the whole way.” The facility is pretty far removed. It’s also fortified with security the likes of which it would take Jim a year to tunnel through.

He gets an idea, and it tastes good. “How about this: instead of wasting your credits on Gomez, let me have a look at your car for free. She won’t see you until tomorrow and she’ll do a damn slow job with it too. If you give me four hours, I’ll make you right as rain today and you can be on your merry way.”

Spock cocks his head to the side; Jim can almost see him parsing through his words, making educated guesses about some of the phrasing until finally he asks, “You will perform this service without compensation?”

“Sure,” Jim shrugs. He doesn’t need the money—he’s still living off the pay he got for the PADD app he designed last year. “I’m capable of being the good Samaritan. This time.” That and he likes the cupid’s bow of Spock’s lips.

Spock places his cup down on the counter with care, considering the offer silently. Jim looks at the slopes of his cheekbones and nose, a little softer, he thinks, than the razorblade angles on the faces of the other Vulcans Jim has seen. Spock’s dark eyes are fixed on the last droplets of water running down the inside of the glass.

He surprises Jim by shaking his head. “I do not find your terms acceptable.” Jim spends half a second wondering if he’s committed some sort of Vulcan social gaffe before Spock continues resolutely, “I will pay. Will you accept credit?”

Jim is startled into a smile. That’s noble. “Nope,” he says, reaching over to pick up Spock’s cup and refill it. “You asked for my help and I’m giving it to you. No charge.”

“I object.” Jim thinks that might be righteous indignation simmering under his careful tonelessness. “It is only logical that I provide recompense equivalent to your effort.” He says it with the imperiousness of someone who knows their way and usually gets it. “What will you accept?” Jim feels a tingle—he likes them fussy too.

“Well,” he says, considering. He really meant the offer of goodwill—he’s always been a sucker for a pretty face, and Spock is very, very pretty. But since the question is in the air, he goes out on a limb and proposes, “What’s say I call it even if you have lunch with me after.”

He holds his breath, hoping the implications translate well and that Vulcan and Terran culture are similar enough for his meaning to transmit. He hasn’t asked someone to food in a while—been too busy doing his best to secede from the rest of Riverside. For the first time in a long time, he finds his palms getting clammy.

Spock regards Jim evenly for several seconds. Jim wonders what he sees, if the parabolic curves of his ears and eyebrows bump him way down the totem pole in Spock’s Vulcan eyes. He’s got nothing but his ratty t-shirt and threadbare jeans going for him right now. The clamminess intensifies.

Finally Spock puts him out of his misery and replies, “I accept.”

Jim feels acute relief. He hands Spock the water. “I’ll get my tools.”

-

Spock slides his hand along the exo-console of the car and the hood recedes, the blue neon light fixtures placed around the labyrinth of the engine flickering on. What a girl, Jim thinks as he scans her metal innards, admiring her design. No way she came cheap.

Beside him, Spock lifts his veil out of the way to ask, “Are you able to operate on this machinery?”

Jim nods. He remembers when they finally published the design, how he’d stayed up for 36 hours poring over the upgrades to the photovoltaic compartment. “Been reading about this model for a couple months, actually. I’m your man.”

He half-expects to be grilled about the declaration, since the majority of the sweaty walk to the car had seen him thoroughly interrogated and dizzy from Spock’s rapid-fire questions about the nuances of Standard slang. Spock says nothing.

Jim scans the maze of parts, searching for the schematics panel. The tech is hyper-new, a little overwhelming in person without the 1200 page manual that comes with the download of its digital schematics, but if he can tag the problem he’ll probably be able to knock things around until something clicks. As he shifts his hands to brace himself for a better look, his fingers brush a button—he presses it and a holochart display pings up.

“Bingo.” Jim scrolls down the catalog of engine components until he comes to number 337, glowing an angry red to indicate the damage. “Good news—I know how to fix it.” He turns to Spock. “I can have you cured in an hour and a half, tops.”

A short hot breeze molds Spock’s veil to his face. Jim is momentarily distracted by the way the fabric pulls taut across Spock’s mouth as he says, “Is there anything you require?”

“Naw,” Jim says, wetting his lips with his tongue.  When he tastes the sweat on his upper lip, he adds, “You didn’t have to come.” He knows his face is pink and shiny. He’s sure his skin will be blistering come nightfall—he’d been too busy watching Spock drink another glass to remember to reapply cream. “Could have stayed at the house and out of the heat.” He says it to be polite; Spock’s skin is barely green and entirely dry. “You can sit in the car if you’d like, get out of the sun.”

“This temperature is trivial,” Spock announces, and even though his voice is carefully modulated Jim swears he can hear scorn in it. “Furthermore, I wish to observe the repair process so that in the future I may perform this task independently.”

Jim can appreciate that. “Sounds fair.” _Is_ appreciating it—letting his gaze trickle down from black hair to broad shoulders to trim waist to mile-long legs. He’s a hands-on kind of guy himself.

Prying his eyes away, he selects number 337 on the holochart, and the blue lights in the engine arrow toward the malfunctioning part. Piece of cake, he thinks, half of the work already done for him. He bends to rifle through his toolbox, and when he stands again he dips the brim of his hat to Spock and says, “Feel free to take notes.”

He begins by deactivating the magnetic bonds holding the engine’s outer pieces together, maneuvering the lightweight alloy sections out of the way so he can stick his arm into the guts of the machine.  He narrates everything he does, explaining himself as he pries open the solar cell clusters to check the photodiode’s optical connection.

Spock comes in close to watch. He asks a lot of questions. Jim’s answers are all distracted because at this distance he notices details like the spicy smell in Spock’s clothes and hair and what might be a dusting of freckles down his throat. He watches Spock visibly commit all the information to what seems to be a hell of a memory and feels his hands start to get clammy again.

Eventually Spock drags assessing eyes away from the engine and turns them on Jim. “Your knowledge of this subject is formidable. Do you work in automobile repair?”

Jim can’t say why he preens—people have been calling him formidable for a long time. “Naw, it’s just a hobby. A little something to keep my hands busy.” The fingers of one hand twitch involuntarily where they rest on the edges of the engine socket and he thinks Spock’s eyes track the movement. “I do computer work.”

He has the entirety of Spock’s attention on him now. “You are employed by a company?”

“Freelance, actually,” Jim admits. The last time he dressed up was for his senior prom. Office jobs aren’t his thing. “I’m more of a lone wolf.”

He’s about to beat Spock to the punch and clarify his meaning when Spock asks, calculating. “You prefer to remain alone?”

Jim’s been around the block enough times to hear what’s being asked. He casts a sidelong glance. “Usually.” He licks his lips again because the heat is drying out his mouth and because he knows it looks good. “Don’t mind the odd visitor though.”

Spock’s lips do something incredibly subtle, something that Jim would call the ghost of a smile that didn’t feel somehow impertinent. “That is fortunate.”

Spock has been leaning over to look closely at the parts Jim points out to him. It makes his veil slip down to bare more of his neck—those are definitely freckles. Jim takes a risk and reaches out to grasp the end of the shawl, lifting it up so it doesn’t fall into the engine, holding Spock’s eyes as he does.

He notices the dark fan of Spock’s eyelashes, long and sooty. “Thank you,” Spock says, voice muted, long fingers curling around the sheer fabric too. Jim doesn’t let go right away and the tips of Spock’s fingers graze his.

Jim resolves to never forget the way Spock’s entire body goes taut. He thinks he remembers reading that Vulcan hands are sensitive—is positive now that he remembers diagrams of Vulcan kisses, educational slides from high school (and the only homework he’d taken his time doing). As he drops the veil he lets their knuckles brush experimentally. Spock doesn’t pull away.

Heat starts simmering low in Jim’s belly. He spares a glance for the engine.  “Car’s fine now. Ready to go when we are.”  When he looks back at Spock his eyes fall naturally to the pout of his lips, and despite the heat his mouth waters. “Hungry?”

Spock doesn’t look away. “Yes.”

-

The frame of Jim’s bed jerks under the combined weight of him and Spock dropping naked onto the mattress. Jim catches himself on his arms to keep his body weight off of Spock but the headboard shudders against the wall anyway. The creak that snaps through the room makes Spock pull back from their kiss to inquire, “Is the structural integrity of this bed sufficient for our purposes?”

Propped up on his elbows above him, Jim laughs. “It’ll hold,” he promises, leaning down to pick up where they left off, sampling that pout again. His lips are chapped but Spock’s are soft, flushed green and swelling up from the pressure of Jim’s mouth.

Jim is sweating. He’d started to cool down during the quick drive back to the farmhouse in Spock’s car, but after they’d parked the car Spock had curled a long hand around his wrist and tugged him up the front porch steps and gotten his blood simmering again. Jim had also turned up the heat in the house, noting the way Spock tensed under the air conditioning; between the temperature and the warm body beneath him, Jim is drenched.

Spock is fascinated. He obliges Jim by returning his human kiss, but his hands are roving—rifling through his damp hair, skimming the curves of his ears (which draws a hiss out of Jim, the skin there red and raw from sun), gliding over the plain of his back. He drags two fingers down Jim’s spine, pausing at the sweat collecting in the hollows of his lower back.

Jim satisfies some curiosities of his own. He dips his head to flick his tongue across the freckles that have been teasing him all afternoon, tasting Spock’s skin where the spice in his scent is the strongest. He blows across the wetness he left where Spock’s throat meets his shoulder and takes pleasure in the shudder Spock suppresses.

“Your body,” Spock begins, pausing to return the quick kiss Jim presses to his lips before he moves to the other side of his throat. “Your body is wasteful.”

Jim exhales a laugh. Spock suppresses another shiver. “How do you mean?” He shifts his attention to Spock’s clavicle, sucking at the knot of bone through the skin.

Spock tips his head back to make room. “The volume of the moisture you release,” he elaborates, but that’s as far as he gets before Jim reaches down to slot his hands under Spock’s thighs and lift them open so he can fit between them. He obeys the impulse to grind down. Spock’s next exhale is very loud.

Jim’s no monk—he knows his way around the bedroom. Usually he navigates his way through encounters by sound and touch, but he’s never been with a Vulcan before—Spock makes very little noise and stifles most of his physical reactions. Jim’s flying blind.

He leans up to press more kisses along Spock’s jaw, asking, “What do you want?” He hikes Spock’s legs up higher around his waist and then reaches down to capture one of Spock’s wandering hands and tangle their fingers together, mimicking what he remembers of his xenoculture class and improvising what he doesn’t.

Spock’s cheeks are flushing green and his breathing is finally audible. He answers almost immediately. “I wish to achieve mutual sexual satisfaction.”

Jim is caught somewhere between exasperated amusement and intensifying arousal. “Glad to know we’re on the same page.” He starts sucking a mark into the dip below Spock’s ear and is gratified by the way Spock’s hand tightens around his. “Specifics?”

Spock looks a little distracted by the pattern Jim starts playing on his knuckles, an old piano piece; he takes his time mulling the question over. “I wish to touch you,” he says eventually. It’s vague, but he has the same look as when he was soaking up everything Jim had to tell him about the car engine, memory receptive and fertile and palms itching with the desire to try, and Jim thinks that’s good enough.

He flattens himself on top of Spock and rolls them so that he’s on his back and Spock is in his lap. He’s sturdy for all his slenderness, a nice heavy weight shifting on top of Jim as he plants his knees in the mattress for balance. Jim reaches up to comb Spock’s mussed hair back into its immaculate bowl and tells him, “Do it how you like.”

Spock looks at him with his dark eyes and says, like it’s an order, “Understood.”

He trails his fingers down Jim’s chest, scratching his kept nails through the dusting of curls and visibly categorizing the difference between Jim’s sparse hair and his own, thick down his abdomen. He tests the sensitivity of Jim’s nipples and traces the muscles outlined by Jim’s every breath, and he’s enjoying it very much if the way his pupils dilate is anything to go by.

Jim doesn’t obstruct him, just puts his hands on Spock’s hips and rocks him back and forth to keep the friction. Both of them are fully hard, sliding together as Jim pulls Spock forward again and again. Jim’s eyes flit between the press of them and Spock’s eyes, also fixed on the place where they meet.

Without warning, Spock leans away. Jim lets go automatically but Spock just adjusts his stance and then pulls Jim’s hands back to his waist. He drops his own hand to Jim’s hip, looking up to meet his eyes with a wordless question; he waits until Jim squeezes before wrapping his hand around Jim and pumping him experimentally.

His mouth falls open at the touch and that coupled with the sensation punches a groan out of Jim. After a few more strokes he wraps his other around Jim too and then Jim, blood boiling, has to sit up to grasp the back of Spock’s neck and pull him down for another kiss. It crushes Spock’s hands between them but his hands, palms soft and a little dry and entirely perfect, don’t stop moving.

They go on like that until Jim starts feeling something like electricity crackle over his skin, little sparks of pleasure that he knows aren’t fully his by the way they originate and spread out from his fingertips. There’s some kind of pleasure feedback building up between them like static noise. His eyes open, lashes brushing Spock’s and prompting his to open too, and he knows by the glassiness in Spock’s gaze that Spock’s mind is greedy too, that it’s joining his hands in the touching.

“Fuck,” Jim grits out, and comes.

He forgets himself and his hands tighten for a second, raising green blood under Spock’s skin before he lets go and his muscles go slack and the space between them gets slick. Spock jerks him through it, squeezes him until he’s wrung out. He must still be receiving because the moment oversensitivity hits he releases Jim and braces his sticky hands on either side of Jim’s navel.

Breath coming hard, Jim collects his wits and reaches down to help. Spock quickly assures him, “The satisfaction was mutual.”

Jim groans and steals another kiss.

-

“I thank you once again for your hospitality,” Spock says, hands wrapped around a water bottle Jim has given him for the road. Out on the front porch, his eyes catch the sunlight coming in at an afternoon slant and Jim realizes they’re brown. “You have been generous.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jim says. He plucks at the shoulders of Spock’s robes until the cloth hangs straight, and then he bends down to pat some of the dust out of the hem, shaking the fabric until it’s mostly black again. “You’ve been a great guest.”

When he stands again, Spock surprises him with a brief kiss. It’s chaste, almost sweet, and Jim can’t resist it. He steps forward, hand going automatically to the back of Spock’s neck, and they stand there kissing for a few glorious minutes before Spock disconnects them and takes a step back.

“Regrettably I must leave,” he says, tugging at his veil and letting it slip forward to cover his face again. “I must arrive at the shipyard punctually.” His tone is bland and Jim immediately misses his face, but the way he wraps two fingers around Jim’s thumb turns the words apologetic.

“That’s a damn shame,” Jim sighs. He’s usually good at goodbyes but he finds himself lifting Spock’s veil for another short kiss. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Spock does nothing to stop him. “Likewise,” he says. He is very slow about withdrawing his hand. “Goodbye, Jim.”

“Bye, Spock,” Jim returns, and if the words are disappointing in his mouth, so is the sight of Spock turning on his heel to walk to the driveway. Jim shields his eyes with his hand and watches him go.

When Spock’s car is a plume of dust in the distance, he jumps off the porch and makes his way to the back of the house. He finishes the remainder of the sunscreen and tugs on his cap, and, snatching up his wrench, slides back underneath the junk bike. He picks up where he left off like he was never away.

It’s dusk when he goes back inside and the farmhouse is dark and quiet. For the first time in years, Jim is tempted to feel morose, but when he stops in the kitchen for a quick beer before a shower he can’t help the grin that surfaces at the sight of the glass on the counter.

**Author's Note:**

> I also exist at t-pock.tumblr.com.


End file.
